


saccharo

by DisorganisedChaoticAries



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Angst and Humor, Author Has Religious Trauma, Awesome Alana Bloom, Beverly Katz is the Best, Canon-Typical Violence, Caring Hannibal Lecter, College Student Will Graham, Corruption, Dark Hannibal Lecter, Dark Will Graham, Drunken Flirting, Drunkenness, Dubious Morality, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Hannibal Lecter Has Feelings, Hannibal Lecter Has a Crush, Hannibal Lecter Loves Will Graham, Hannibal Lecter is the Chesapeake Ripper, Hannibal is Upfront From the Start, Jack Crawford Being Jack Crawford, Lockdown Fic, M/M, Mafia AU, Mafia Boss Hannibal Lecter, Minor Character Death, Murder Husbands, Not Beta Read, Not really slow burn, Oblivious Will Graham, Sassy Will Graham, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Virgin Will Graham, Will Graham & Beverly Katz Friendship, Will Graham is a Good Friend, Will Graham is a Sapphic Protector, Young Will Graham
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-20
Updated: 2021-01-08
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:14:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28196748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DisorganisedChaoticAries/pseuds/DisorganisedChaoticAries
Summary: 'sugar spun thinly is no less sweet, my dearest, will.'or, will graham feels the keen burn of infedelity, and deposits himself, drunk, into the booth of a one hannibal lecter; a man whose all too used to the act of burning.
Relationships: Alana Bloom/Margot Verger, Beverly Katz/Miriam Lass, Will Graham & Beverly Katz, Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 13
Kudos: 84





	1. unus

it never did rain when will commanded of it.

as a young boy, will graham found himself in church an awful lot. virginia never did claim to be a forgiving state for those without faith, but even as a child he knew his belief in an almighty could only extend as far as an act of courtesy. sitting vacant on a pew surrounded by bleeding sheep, his mama always said, voice stern as mama’s often was, that god would one day show his face to will and then he’d be sorry he never attended confessional. ‘ _attest for your sins, baby, and only then can god accept you into his flock_ ’. he never much liked the sound of that. see, it wasn’t the idea of being the shepherd, so much, that interested will, but he wouldn’t mind assuming that skin if it meant rebutting his role as lamb. he didn’t see much enlightenment at the prospect of breaking his back forwards in prayer within the nave of a cathedral. yet, when will had finally asked back, staring gaunt into the casket that drapped itself shamelessly across his father, just what god looked like, he never meant to be met with the trickling sound of credence draining through the floor. will had never paid much mind to god but his mama had, and his mama never did take him back to church after that. she never dared say it, but if his mama had been an honest woman, she would have admitted that she didn’t much believe in god either after will’s daddy got himself shot; face blown to shards of unrecognisable pockets of flesh.

if will were an honest man, he would admit that since the day of his daddy’s funeral coiled deep within him was the urge not to be the lamb, nor the shepherd – now, he much preferred toying with idea of playing wolf.

with a shallow pool of anger swallowing deep within his sternum, he stood still in the belly of washington breathing; reminding himself with even shallower breath that he were no monster. stood rooted to the road etched out by the moon, hands fisted around pages of old testament, he had to shake the unfathomable rage of an old god that had gripped to his ribs. if he stood there much longer, burning house down with gaze alone, the urge that nuzzled itself so sweet across his jaw to just taste how it felt to be that vengeful wolf may knit itself taunt across his head. no, will thought in an echo of resent, god never did get around to showing me his face. the devil sure as hell did though, mama.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

will graham was drudk, deunk, d r u n k.

yes, very drunk.  
he didn’t much like getting drunk, made his skin feel a bit too much like his daddy’s, god rest his soul, but there was little else one could do bar a grievous suicide after feeling the keen sting of infidelity.  


could it be considered infidelity?

yes.

but you knew from the start.

shut the fuck up.

will never could quite shake that pesky empathy disorder he’d coaxed out of a box from a young age.

❝katz, look, i know we haven’t spoken in…❞

❝ _three months._ ❞

❝but i could really use a place to crash.❞

friendships, however, were easily shaken by will graham.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

truly, beverly katz loved will graham. they’d been friends since first year, soon entering their third, and their friendship, though never verbally established, had been an unwavering consistency throughout university life. their introduction, nervously attending the same forensic science intro class, had facilitated an unsteady companionship but she’d never expected it to flesh itself into more than a fleeting acquaintance made to avoid addressing the oily caress of home sickness. it was only when beverly had had her skin peeled back by will graham, had him relay his gaze up the cortical folds of her psyche as though he were reading her palm, that she truly allowed him to settle by her side. he’d been a hot mess. all long limbs, drunken stance, and _appalling_ manners. with eyes hazed with both alcohol and anger, he’d told her just who he saw in front of him. beverly found herself, for lack of a better word, endeared and from then on, she’d accepted the knowledge that will graham ached with the burden of knowing how she felt every second of every day.

perhaps that’s why she’d answered his fucking call. after three months of radio silence, she was fully prepared to commit a homicide of a savage scale at the sight of ‘WILL SNAKE GRAHAM’ flooding her mobile. truly, the man knew no limits.

beverly grimaces at the screen for a long while, sucking harshly on the cigarette she’d lit at the beginning of her break, and finds an ebb of satisfaction curl itself, delicately arching, across the smoke. usually her nicotine habit, _it’s not an addiction – i can stop at any time_ , didn’t interfere with work but tonight they had important guests, and tension was high. her boss had been riding her ass the whole way through her shift, and god knew how she’d suffer through the next six hours.

her phone stopped vibrating, accepting the weight of a dead friendship.

**_WILL SNAKE GRAHAM IS CALLING…_ **   
_accept [] decline []_

he’d been a friend, not a good one, sure, but graham had never claimed to be.

❝oh, for fucks sake. you have _got_ to be shitting me. ❞

  
beverly grimaces again, this time with the knowledge that she was indeed about to give will graham the blade once more, pre-empting the pain that was sure to lay stagnant in the air at hearing the voice of a man long dead to her. taking one last drag from the dwindling fire between her lips, she notices with waning energy that her shift looms with five minutes to spare.

❝ _please make this quick, will._ ❞

❝ _beverly, i…i didn’t know if you’d answer._ ❞

❝ _yes, you did._ ❞

her voice is flat, unimpressed, but she finds concern slipping through the gaps her incisors make within her mouth. she barely notices it is there, licking her own wounds to avoid the salt god pours, but she definitely notices the rough slur that shaped her name within will’s mouth. drunk. will graham didn’t like getting drunk. especially not as drunk as he sounded. ( it reminded him of his father) . children bred by an alcohol fuelled fist tended to recognise the same hunted reflex in others, and so beverly had never had to do the discourtesy of asking when will refused to sink himself in cheap beers. She hears a sardonic laugh pulse from the other end of the line.

❝ _no, i did, but i… i was… i was scared you wouldn’t_ ❞

beverly hates herself for feeling her resolve crumble. will graham crying, no, closer to hiccupping, over call was not an experience she’d wish upon anyone. the muffled sound of breath trying desperately to be caught, she could only guess he’d placed a hand over the microphone of his own mobile in a desperate attempt to preserve his grief, led to a short duration of sniffling.

❝could i stay round yours tonight? ❞

❝ _mine?! m i n e. seriously, will?! that apartment still has your fucking_  
 _name on the lease as well as mine, or did you forget when you jumped ship_  
 _to go live with Matthew fucking **Brown** of all people?!_ ❞

how he’d facilitated the mutual dependency that watered a relationship was beyond her. (well, she expected that was why he’d called). will wasn’t exactly what beverly would call boyfriend material. the man was compartmentalised. within said components were repressed psychotic episodes, a deep-seated and irrational fear of psychiatrists, a tendency to wake up in a cold sweat, and entire weeks of muted lips. beverly wouldn’t say she put up with him. she was his friend, she loved him, she took care of him – at least as much as he’d allow. so, when will proposed the idea of him moving out, sure, it put a bad taste in her mouth?  
when things got bad, she had always been there; whether that to be the one who turned all the mirrors around, or to meet him in the kitchen at three am with a cup of coffee waiting, or to talk enough for the both of them. shit, she’d been a **great** _fucking_ friend. so, yeah, fuck it, it stung when he moved out. and to go live with matthew brown.

❝ _please can we talk about this is the morning?_ ❞

she’d give it to him; he was a conniving shit when he wanted to be. all big blue eyes, and messy curls, and venom delicately rolling from tongue to greedy ear. and yet with the knowledge that the snake by her ear is spinning silken webs, she still bites the apple because it’s will, and she honestly just wants to forgo the stress of finding a new housemate after the last one fled the previous weekend.

❝ _i’m at work. you can come pick up the keys_. ❞

beverly wonders if this makes her worse than eve, punished with menstruation whilst adam walks free.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

will remembers a hot virginian summer spent within a church besides his mother, looking up to the stained-glass window along the north façade. wondering how michael must have felt to triumph in the face of great evil as lucifer fell. it was during a time in which he had once considered himself a bearer of a blessing. the bible never mentioned no empathy disorders, but will’s daddy knew for damn certain they mentioned prophets. sure, his boy couldn’t tell the future as one would first imagine, but somehow the kid always knew what was going on in your head. he’d cock his head to the side, scrunch his face, and ask. without a shred of self-preservation, he’d ask questions not even intrusive could take the honour of crowning. but will had a gift. everyone in the town knew it and, sure, some of them made murmurs of revelations, but the vicar was not blinded by the sweet evil of envy.  
it wasn’t until the day that will allowed himself to fully submerse himself into the psyche of the only man he didn’t understand, and asked; ‘why are you so sad, daddy?’ that his mama stopped calling it a blessing of god.

henry graham had never quite given his boy a beating like he had that evening.

will would also fondly remember looking up to the same stained-glass window along the north façade after that evening and wondering instead how it must have burned to be _lucifer_ as he fell from grace.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

will knew matthew would cheat on him, and he knew when he’d started to do so. he was a fisherman, after all. all it took was some bait and some time. with summer days dragging nails against chalk, he was in great supply of both.

will still doesn’t understand why he allowed it to happen.  
perhaps that is what has upset him to hysteria.

will still didn’t understand some of the shadows within his mind, or why he does certain things. he knows there are dogs, feral with bloodlust, snapping strong snarling snouts bared with rows of rotting teeth. he knows they are still there, right that moment, because he could hear their desperate howls reverberate across his empty chest as he’d walked in on matthew defiling their sheets. he knows he has the capacity to kill with them. that should be a scary thought. it wasn’t a scary thought. because it is not the dogs, he fears the most within himself. for they are dogs. dogs. they are animals of hunger, of necessity, of passion. they are aroused only at the scent of upset. and can be soothed by calamity. they are protection, of sorts.

that’s not the shadow  
that scares him.

he’s _not_ a monster.

no, because if he were a monster, he wouldn’t be crying, echoing wasted sobs to an unhearing, uncaring, father, with his heart shredded pitifully at his feet. A heart broken _by a first year_. he wouldn’t feel as though he were going home at the thought of seeing beverly, he wouldn’t have truly tried to love matthew brown. a psychopath’s defining inability to love. they did a semester on it. but he could love. perhaps not in the ways other people could, but it was still love. he still felt, as any man should. sometimes he felt too much, all at once, and he’d have to hide beneath the weight of a blanket threaded with the silk of missed seminars. so why did it feel as though he were contesting to a judge? laying proof before the jury that _will graham is not a psychopath. he’s a good man_. why did he act as both judge and defendant, and jury, and plaintiff, to his own prosecution? 

christ, he missed beverly.

the growls of the dogs eventually abate as he sobers. will should be pleased. he isn’t. because as silence breaks the surface, the stag rears its calculating head from the darkest haven, free from emotional attachment, and still, with no motivation and in the wake of calamity, it whispers murder into the bowels of his head; but that doesn’t make him a psychopath, right?

right?

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

will drinks on the walk to le bernardin.

heavily.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

le bernardin was an establishment that will graham could confidently say, he’d never entered under pretences of an enjoyable evening. the place, even though his blurred vision (from drink, not tears, will resolved within himself), had ‘elitist’ pretty much etched in childish front across the front. embellished, within an alcove hiding from any hungry eyes, with a name framed by glossy silver, will could only vaguely remember what beverly had bemoaned upon him about her work. a restaurant exterior which when pulled back, revealed an extensive bar to which the gentlefolk could sink themselves under the guise of business. non-surprisingly, the upper class (truly closer to the one percent) assigned its role within their orchestrated dance: a theatre set. yes, will thinks bitterly, that’s what they were: actors, puppets to the terse strings of their own class – destined to spend their lives miserably drinking in a gratified bar. he could see it all, and he saw lives spent bent over for tradition. a life wasted to greed, stuffing themselves.

so why could he still feel their stab of hunger?

a sense of regret, perhaps.  
he never could quite afford to take his mama to the places he’d thought she’d deserved before she followed his daddy to salvation.

still, with enough whiskey in his system to verge on paralytic, will could only feel the fresh branding of grief lay heavy against his breast. he shrugged it off. mama would be rolling in her grave, but he’d take that over the s t i l l n e s s in which he’d found her. he missed her, truly, but will graham was used to missing, to want with nothing in return, and he knew that lamenting in his own misery – commiserating with the grief he never quite unpacked from his daddy’s death nearing a decade previous – would ultimately do no good.

he was too

drunk.

thoughts with any resemblance of coherency most definitely hadn’t  
decided to slumber upon his crown this evening.

he’d drank nearing the entire bottle of calvert.

the fact he’d only had to sit down twice, world spinning relentlessly as he imagined the titanic did as it collapsed into the mouth of the ocean (did the titanic? spin? he laughed at the idea), was miraculous. he’d dropped his phone midwalk, too inebriated to care of the lasting implications, and had effectively stumbled into the steadying body of the houses lining the streets countless times. he’d only really been distantly aware that he was reaching civilisation, no longer enveloped with the dampening warmth of a sleeping suburb, when he’d bumped into a man only a little younger than he, and only a little soberer than he.

he never drank.

he did tonight  
as did, apparently, half the damn campus.

swaths of students staggered through the central streets, most likely swaying homebound due to the two am closing policy imposed upon the bars surrounding the campus, and will could barely register that he was walking on autopilot.

how he’d gotten semi-safely to le bernardin was beyond mere mortal comprehension.  
perhaps this were an apology from an almighty.

will, through feeling the keen constricting thump of his own heart beating, could subconsciously appreciate that at least he was wearing something appropriate. stumbling through a foyer of glittering glass walls, barely fighting the urge to slump over against one and rest, even will could notice the kind of attention he was attracting. men delicately pulling their wives towards them, wives frowning as he wobbled through the gaps made – yet eyes ever hungry, appraising. he couldn’t quite imagine what he looked like to them; his empathy could extend only so far, after all, and the 0.18 blood-alcohol content streaming within his veins definitely wasn’t helping matters. he recognised lust when he saw it, however. he knew, with a faint sense of relief, that he wasn’t wearing his usual clothes. with an oxford shirt of snow and a blazer of dark grey that had been an expensive spur of the moment purchase before his mama’s funeral, will held some sort of semblance of propriety. yet, this foundation of wealth had unfortunately been subject to slander during the forty-five-minute stagger. the thin woollen scarf, leaking the same colour as the blazer, that had once tied tight to throat had been loosened, only served as a physical highlight of the two buttons he’d roughly tugged free from his neck: hair a dark crest of bedraggled curls that had been swept through the fingers of wind for too long to be decent, and his face had begun to carve a shadow of stubble in the absence of attention.

he’d meant to be going on a date.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

truly, will had attempted to find beverly. with the job title of ‘bartender’, it was hardly difficult to navigate where he would find her. in fact, even with as drunk as he was, will was fairly certain through the crowd he could see a glimpse of the glass bar that arched through the centre of the room. knowing and doing, however, were two vastly differing concepts. will found himself no more sobered than he had been when he’d taken his last bitter breath from the glass bottle (was drinking in a public place a criminal offence?). if he’d had the capacity to emote past drunken euphoria, will was certain he’d begin to feel a dead weight within the pit of his stomach as he began to stumble worse – dread.

will didn’t drink much, and he always blindly forgot that alcohol  
had a dangerous way of creeping up on oneself.

he needed to sit  
down.

vaguely aware of existence of the shred of reason left within the arena of his mind, will desperately clings to a sense of logic like a lifeboat (spinning, titanic, a faint exhale of humour) and agrees he won’t make it to beverly. the choice is simple and split second.

nosedive to the floor or stumble into a booth

will didn’t much anticipate the movement, as such, but knew a concussion (and potentially losing beverly her job by association) were unsavoury outcomes. jerking suddenly, breaking himself free of his own reverence, towards the booth swaddled by privacy besides him, will chose his fate.  
Even the curtain partitioners were obnoxious in their wealth. soft swaddles of black velvet found themselves buried deep within his fist, pushed back with a desperate force, as will finds himself wrestling against a wave of nausea. dazed, too incapacitated to take in the sight of aristocratic seclusion dissected forcefully by his own hand, he collapses against a leather embrace.

still, slumped forehead to clothed table, the room span.

groaning lowly, willing himself not to simply curl onto his side and welcome his fate as a drunken fool, will breathes deeply through ravenous mouth. mama did always say the graham men couldn’t hold their alcohol; voice guarded as will grew into a young man. he wonders if she ever feared he would be a product of his father. had she ever said that in hopes of dissuading the growth of another man filled with an archaic rage? if so, he imagines her pride waning in that moment. will graham didn’t want to make a mockery of his mama’s pride. Even as a very young boy, he had known his mama had sewn the pieces of the world together for him, and him alone. she’d given him all she’d had, and that had been enough for him. it would always be enough for him. she would have always been enough for him. it’s true that when his daddy died, will didn’t feel any authentic sense of grief. it was more worry.

  
where was mama gonna get money now?

could he support her?

did she keen with the loss of love?

will hadn’t ever felt much for his daddy past a predisposed biological affection.  
maybe he was like him just as mama said.

groaning again, will feels no consolidation at the idea of his mama looking down from an ivory tower. he vaguely knew that if his stomach were not settled imminently, he would be creating a grizzly scene across the incredibly expensive flooring and knew for damn sure his mama would be howling from beyond the veil. truly, he needed a contingency plan. The nausea had followed with a welcome sense of mental clarity which cut through the fog of alcohol that had permeated the air within his lungs. this meant: a plan. yes, a plan. he needed to get to beverly, get to some water, and get himself back to the comforting blanket of his home. another wave of nausea. yet will, from his deep conjuncture of thought, is startled not by another hiccup drenched with stomach acid, but by a rich european accent which (from what his dampened proprioception could gather) originated from the opposite side of the table.

❝ _may i act as any assistance to you?_ ❞

will didn’t have the courage to look up.

and from a ditch along the main boulevard between campus and city, a phone, splintered, rings.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

**_BEVERLY KATZ IS CALLING…_ **   
_accept [ ] decline [ ]_

_\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------_

beverly’s shift had been several shades of hell from start to finish. the night included, but was not limited to, spilling cognac across the bar flooring (of which was quickly fortifying itself as her own personal mausoleum), swearing in front of a customer and getting a disciplinary from her assistant manager (the actual manager of le bernardin had the luxury of avoiding nights where the chesapeake crowd were involved) and _will graham_

was now missing.

with two hours still on the clock and having been asked specifically by _the_ table to act as waiter, beverly had very little space to facilitate a search party for the man. she’d been on shift since opening, two pm on the weekends, and would loiter within the confines of glass until closing. beverly, much to the annoyance of her shift manager, had a habit of weaselling her way out of said shifts. finishing at two am meant for a twelve-hour shift and, amongst her usually backlog of unfinished assessments, she generally didn’t have the energy nor loyalty to agree. yet the summer sun wouldn’t wane until september, and with that her class would arouse, and so beverly found herself with nothing but time on her hands. she supposed she could have returned home, taken a flight just as her mother had begged of her, and spent the summer with her sisters. there had been a time, in her first year, where that request would have left her tersely strung: ready to snap home. it was, however, with a sick sense of nostalgia that beverly realised each year she had spent courting washington, she’d unknowingly yearned more and more to never return to the boundaries of boston.

she thought maybe she’d return for the winter as an apology.

she didn’t.

not in the end.

nevertheless, this shift wasn’t particularly a _choice_. it was never quite said, on the tip of everyone’s tongue, but if you wanted to keep your job: you worked whatever shift when dr. Lecter asked of it.

dr. Lecter? now _that_  
was a scary individual.

beverly had only served him once previous to that evening and it had been… well, she remembered it.

the man rarely approached le bernardin for anything beyond business (only thrice in the two years of service beverly had) and when he approached for business, waiting staff were strictly told not to go near the booth. beverly never asked why, they all knew why. dr. Lecter led a small group of individuals who, in return for their own protection, carried out the tasks he saw fit to be carried out. beverly had always been told ‘a small group’ when her colleagues had fed her scraps they knew on the group, but she suspected they were simply saving her the stab of fear they all collectively felt when the chesapeake men came through their doors.

_small group, my ass._

 _yeah_ , he was **that** breed of scary. the untouchable kind: the kind of scary that even lowly college students were unpleasantly made to respect every time one of them wound-up dead, turned inside out and into art. the type of terrifying that not even police could come close to reaching, because damn had they tried. it seemed as though it every other week jack crawford, head of the behavioural science unit at the fbi, had an open investigation regarding the premises, and regarding one dr. Lecter. he conducted interviews fortnightly.

beverly had never said anything when asked. none of the staff ever did…

one had, actually.

(it’s how beverly got the job).

because no one ever wanted to talk about the chesapeake mafia, and most certainly no one wants to work under their front organisation, especially after the entirety of the georgetown university populous witnessed the butchery they made of the last server who turned to police. beverly, however, thought the waitress probably should have had the sense not to squeal.  
and she was correct, because since the day of her employment, beverly had never had issue with any of the chesapeake gang.

  
she just kept to herself and did her job. in fact, she’d only ever seen benefits from her choice of workplace. protection was always in short supply for a woman in college, and dr. Lecter saw to it that the reward for their loyalty was lucrative.

no beverly, she… she hated the man, but, hell, she _respected_ him.

❝ _jesus roosevelt christ! there’s a fucking drunk twink in dr. Lecter’s booth!_ ❞

will graham didn’t seem to be so lost, after all.

beverly was going to kill him if Lecter didn’t get around to doing it first.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

❝ _may i suggest a glass of water?_ ❞

it had been a pregnant pause that had followed the man’s initial intrusion (although technically it was will intruding) and will only manged to grapple with composure for fleeting seconds before social obligation reared its ugly head, and he was forced to meet the man’s eyes.

❝ _what are you, a doctor?_ ❞

will scowls, annoyed at how slurred he sounds to his own ears, and finds himself feeling a unique sense of defensiveness. the man in front of him obviously belonged. in an ironic parallel, will noted that the man had donned the socially acceptable version of will’s own suit: blazer meticulously ironed, buttons rigid in their spots, an honest-to-god tie. eyes flitting, noting the extent to just how enclosed the personal booth appeared, will imagined he might have preferred to be concussed on the floor at that moment.

❝ _i am, of sorts, and you are very rude when frightened._ ❞

he truly cannot be faulted for the scoff that left his mouth, nor the way he follows it with gluttonous eyes. looking directly into the other man’s eyes, there is an echoing, and resolute, silence within will’s mind. it’s as though a switch, a lever that a childhood of intensive therapy could not weight, flips.

he stares at the man in silence.

he stares back.

within this stranger, will graham finds the face of god. such a neutral lake of brown reveal nothing of the frigid waters spiralling into rapids just below the surface. brown? he falters. no, not brown. something so close that it could almost nestle itself into the category of brown, of normality, but there’s something…  
maroon, the stag twitches.

he finds an eternal silence as well.

it’s just him thinking so loudly that he nearly doesn’t realise he’s still on edge, anticipating the eventual flood of emotions that are not his own. yet, it never comes. instead, he finds reflected so loudly in the powerful gaze of the man, an identical stag impatiently reverberating within a darkness indistinguishable from his own.

perhaps he sees the face of lucifer.

❝ _i don’t find you very frightening._ ❞

will doesn’t realise that he doesn’t feel all that sick anymore, nor that he’s found himself leaning slightly across the table, closing distance.

❝ _you will._ ❞

he doesn’t realise he was holding his breath, either, but he finds himself exhaling as the stranger fights to tame the corner of his lip.

❝ _i imagine, if I may be so presumptuous, that you did not intend to come across my person, then?_ ❞

his accent is thick, unfamiliar words bleeding together in tandem, and will finds himself staring again. this time he stares at the mouth making such sounds, still faintly aware of the alcohol forming holes along his carefully sealed sense of decorum, and tries to catch every vowel, every consonant, with the paper edge of the well within his cochlea.

❝ _do you make a habit of being presumptuous of those around you?_ ❞

for the first time since the conversation commenced, the man looks to will with an unscrutinable expression. hints of annoyance, a barely tethered beast, waltz in dangerous dips along the resounding silence, and will should be scared. he should look away, as well. will graham did _**not**_ like eye contact, too distracting, and yet with him he finds himself welcoming the distraction.

he should be terrified of the gravity within the other man.

he is not.

❝ _no… i, um, i got dumped, and i-_ ❞

will looks away, feeling dizzy all over again, and he swears he sees the man frown; he is a black slate when will glances back.

❝ _you bled your heart into a bottle and found sustenance?_ ❞

❝ _is that a fancy way of saying i’m shit faced, mr..._ _?_ ❞

the man is unflinching, only a slight purse of lips, but will finds his own exhilaration along the cracks in the man’s façade. and as will fought back a smirk, he swore he could see an interest glean within the predator before him.

❝ _how rude of me. dr. Lecter._ ❞

will snorts again, this time Lecter doesn’t react.

❝ _weren’t kidding about the doctor thing, huh? will graham._ ❞

❝ _will._ ❞

he says the name as though he is tasting it, deliberate tongue carving sharp edges from a soft name, and stares in contemplation. will is struck by the magnitude to which he wants to open dr. Lecter up. an eternity seeing too much has made him greedy and, now he sees little nothing, there’s a hunger coiling at the base of his stomach.

along with that hunger, simmering even further down, is a heat.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

will had been genuinely surprised to see beverly. in fact, the alcohol had fuzzed the edges of the truth behind his being in le bernardin. for a moment in time, he had genuinely forgotten he had been placed on earth for anyone other than dr. Lecter.

❝ _will? jesu- dr. Lecter! i extend my deepest aplogi-_ ❞

❝ _no need for apologies, ms Katz, they are of wasted tongue._  
 _my dear will seems to have drunk a breadth past his limit, so i_  
 _would suggest you take him home once i have seen to it,_  
 _he’s eaten_ ❞

beverly looks to the severe man with a hunted expression, dripping concern

❝ _doctor, my shift doesn’t end for another hour, or so… I’m meant to be closing up._ ❞

for a moment, will is struck by the soft manner in which beverly spoke. beverly was a woman of few kind words, and fewer still were softly spoken, but she spoke to dr. Lecter as though he were a prophet. She hesitates, pauses, waits in anticipation for his every word. will had once been a prophet through the eyes of sheep, as well.

he wonders if he too is a charlatan.

❝ _would you rather i take him home?_ ❞

for will, the unadulterated look of dread was as evident as it were predestined for lucifer to fall. with a flickering flame of protectiveness, beverly manages to saddle herself at the head of the table, reminding will that he is not alone if he were to ask of her help, and she says nothing as dr. Lecter drums his fingers impatiently against the table. Lecter, however, must have understood the concept of an unjust god because he too saw through her postulation. it was only with a demure cough, he managed to conceal his smirk.

❝ _i’ll see to it you are paid in full, and not reprimanded for your absence_ ❞

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

when the food had come, faster than will graham had ever been served in his entirety, he’d sobered up to a level appropriate to facilitating polite conversation. already dreading the hangover which loomed ever present.

❝ _you know, it’s not always considered polite to choose what someone’s eating when they’re on a budget, doctor._ ❞  
hannibal smiles, and will knows its paper thin, but can’t help wondering just how his teeth looked bared.

the stag within him preens.

❝ _you make the assumption that i would ever allow you to pay, dear will._ ❞

❝ _well, you’re only paying for one meal so i don’t feel bad about it._ ❞  
will responds, sardonic, and gleans at the sight of dr. Lecter’s pupils dilating.

❝ _i rarely eat food outside of my own creation, dear william. i have an incredibly selective palate._ ❞

will laughs. dr. Lecter does not.  
❝ _i struggle to see you as a cook, my apologies._ ❞

dr. Lecter laughs. will does not.  
❝ _perhaps i should have insisted on taking you home_  
 _rather than feeding you here, i would have loved to_  
 _have you for dinner._ ❞

will graham didn’t yearn for mere rain to fall when he looked at dr. Lecter. no,  
he ached for the beginnings of something biblical.

❝ _perhaps you should have._ ❞


	2. duo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> brutality breeds a biblical sort of salvation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> or the chapter in which beverly sees will's halo falter

when matthew brown was found dead, will felt _nothing_.

he probably should have, in hindsight, given that it was his apartment in which the man had been butchered

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

when his mama had died, blessed by the kiss of the five seasons she’d outlived, will had trapsed his way cross-country for her funeral. burdened with the keen sting of guilt, in spite of his mama’s personal request to be cared for by one not himself, he had found himself lamenting on the time he’d spent apart from her.

the terminal nature of her diagnosis had been a battle his mama wished to lose in the privacy of her own company, and to some extent, an extent teetering on foreboding, her son had respected that choice.

he had been there, eyes hazed and back hunched, as she’d been given the death penalty; sentenced to a life constrained by her own temporality. it had been the summer commencing his first year at georgetown, a severance of dependence required, and it had been the first summer since his daddy left in which the walls of his childhood home were audience to shouting. _god, did he shout that summer_. at everyone, and everything. angry at god, as he so often was, for having the arrogance to remind will of the impending mortality of man, he’d taken to the familiarity of church. his mama insisted on his leaving for college.

‘ _no use wasting two lives to the devil, boy!’_ she’d howled.

he hadn’t had the heart to tell his ma that, if he were true to himself,

it hadn’t been the devil to bring pestilence unto egypt all those years ago.

his mama had deserved better than to spend one of her last summer’s shouting, but it was all will had left to give her. he refused to allow his mama, the woman who had stood before his daddy’s fist to repent her child’s crime, to wither under the eyes of the host alone. he didn’t need to go to college. it had been a plan funded by the slave labour of his daddy’s dreams, and no one had expected it to bear any fruit. the men along the dock shares had long requested his labour, unnerved by the shrewd darkness that gravitated towards the young man but nevertheless desperate for work, and the money could cover what insurance couldn’t. and perhaps, the stag bemused, this dedication to hospitality could rid the howling of dogs within him.

she phoned the police in the end.

forcibly removed from his own home and blistered with a righteous rage, skin peeling like icarus’ had done once too close to the sun, he had spat in the face of a priest the evening before he’d left virgina. taking solace in the arms of an unforgiving father had been a memorable mistake of unparalleled perimetres, and he’d slept atop his daddy’s grave that night scorned.

leaving for college, will graham didn’t look back at the town he’d so feverishly consumed.

on the day of his mama’s funeral, he’d been forced to look back for mere moments back at the life he could have led; a carer consumed by the loss of both parent and ambition. _thank you so much, mama._

despite the terse tug from the cord of love he’d cultivated for his mother, will stood as a benefactor of apathy as her body was returned to the ground. surrounded by family who leeched from the grief of those deserving, not visiting his mama or offering aid during life, he, instead, felt the hollowing out of his chest cavity, almost as though static threatened to consume all within him.

he’d found in times of great peril; he could feel nothing at all.

nothing but the great keen of a stag within him.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

matthew brown had been brutalised, to say the least.

it was with a clinical viciousness; his body had been mutilated. hands amputated from the wrist; they had been sewn over the eye sockets that had been gouged. covering his eyes, as though weeping, the policemen that flooded will’s apartment struggled to speculate whether they had been done whilst he had still been alive. there were no signs of a struggle, no familiar pattern of bruising, but just the burned skin for which had been victim to the rope that he’d hung from.

_i hope he suffered._

_shut up._

with surgeon’s talent, his abdomen had been excavated. free from a digestive tract, carnations had been delicately stuffed within the empty space. it seemed, upon closer inspection (though will would rugate that he’d phoned police upon immediate discovery), that though the lungs remained intact, matthew’s heart had been removed as well.

lilies bloomed white from their spots across stolen genitalia

_i wonder how it must feel, to kill with such passion._

_godly._

_godly._

in truth, will graham hadn’t been particularly nonplussed by the corpse that had greeted him after his environmental forensics class. it, _he_ , had been placed in such a way that will could look elsewhere once inside. to reach the stairwell, to reach his room, he had to trek through the living room. beverly would never have been the one to find the carcass, timetable dictating a day filled with back-to-back lessons then an evening shift and will thought it unwise to negate that fact.

matthew brown had been placed for will graham, alone, to discover.

no, will hadn’t felt much in those moments, and not for lack of trying. after contacting police, a lurking irritation at the knowledge he would be pushed out from the crime scene so thoughtfully orchestrated for his view only, will called beverly. he thought, perhaps, talking to her might reduce shock and unleash a flood but, instead, he found himself thoughtful.

❝ _carnations are meant to represent abstinence, beverly._ ❞

❝ _will graham, you better not be as close to the corpse as i think you are._ ❞

❝ _…_ ❞

as he’d expected, the police had been quick to urge him away. paramedics, understanding their own evident uselessness, chose to focus their energies on will, instead. coddled with a blanket meant to reduce the shock that was worryingly void, he accepted their offers of respite within the rear of the ambulance.

what with half the student body of georgetown looming as spectators outside his home.

the chesapeake ripper had been grievously vacant for quite some time, almost becoming urban myth on the tongue of naïve first years, as the crimes of the mafia had taken precedence within washington.

the murders were so distinct, so _insightful_ , but will had only had the displeasure ( _pleasure_ ) of acting witness to one since his being at college. the students who predate him, typically returning for phds, spoke of times where the murders once frequented monthly. with hesitant voice, they would explain the years of buddy systems, curfews, and almost each of them knew of a victim with personal incentive.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

❝ _but there are still murders?_ ❞

the first years whispered. lips pursed in reverence to a prayer unspoken, they’d listened in suspicion.

❝ _yes, there are. just not the work of the chesapeake ripper. the murders now are gang related, messy._ ❞

those old enough to remember would repeat, almost as though a mantra. for the first years were not yet privy to the artist differences between the _ripper_ , and the mafia. there was speculation, limited to a foundation of mere gossip, that the two were one and the same; the mafia would not allow the ripper to infringe on their hunting grounds so easily, surely? there must have been some sense of creative overlap between the two.

❝ _how do you know they’re not just different people in the…you know._ ❞

the chesapeake mafia had colonised across the east coast like a plague. condemned to a pestilence of biblical proportions, the organisation had leeched from maine to miami after it took on _new leadership_ , but washington remained a replenishing source of infight.

❝ _well, we don’t, not really. we just know that the deaths the mafia claims as their own are done… differently._ ❞

the first years would frown, a deep conjuncture of thought, because, after all, they had only seen the deep chasm created by a ripper murder once. they’d only heard tales, carefully webbed to orchestrate a fairy tale which subverted reality, and, truly, the last murder had been more _apologetic_ than violent.

❝ _he had a pattern?_ ❞

❝ _he **has** no distinctive pattern. that is his pattern._ ❞

after twelve months of calamity within the student body, there had been the killing of jodie starmer.

a delicate slip of a thing.

it had sent the federal bureau into a storm, floods drowning weak lungs, and had been conversation piece ever since. amongst those within departments focusing on criminal minds, many saw it for what it had been constructed as – _a reminder_. because there had been no necessity behind the murder of jodie. she had been kissing five-foot, chronic history of anorexia nervosa and a reliance on fluoxetine, and, for the most part, seemed to keep to herself.

the death had been redundantly easy, verging on unfair, and unlike that of the ripper.

yet the stolen digestive tract filled with poppies painted the picture prettily.

the ripper found sustenance at reminding georgetown of his ever-looming shadow; he must have delighted at the act of carefully wrapping poppy stems around vacant gut. _you will never be free of me_. _your guts of steel will always crumble in my presence._

❝ _but if he has no pattern then how can you be sure it’s him?_ ❞

❝ _the same way you can be certain of an artist even when the subject matter changes._ ❞

❝ _he has a flare._ ❞

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

will graham had the misfortune of having the first ripper victim since

nineteen months previous draped across his mantel piece, just for him.

_why did he find himself hungry?_

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

❝ _you say you’ve had no new interactions that you can remember?_ ❞

❝ _not that i can remember, no._ ❞

jack crawford had a distinctive look of one eating glass.

❝ _and you have no reason to believe the chesapeake ripper would have personal interest in yourself?_ ❞

will graham had a distinctive look of one eating glass.

because he knew what it looked like.

he saw it, himself.

he kept no secret in the messy finality in which his relationship with matthew brown had ended. if detective crawford were to do door to door interviews ( _he would_ ), then it would come to light with a blistering warmth. nearly everyone on his floor had been made painfully aware of the transgressions between the two men when matthew had gotten buzzed in by an unsuspecting neighbour and spent the evening making a spectacle of himself. will could only lock his door, willing beverly to return home and rescue him as she so often did, whilst everyone in the nearby vicinity heard in _graphic_ detail the extent to which will had been cheated on.

and so, he was painfully aware how this looked.

❝ _are you aware of the language behind flowers, mr graham?_ ❞

he was. mama loved flowers.

❝ _i’m not, detective._ ❞

he was, with great cords of divine disinterest, very much aware of the preposition divulged within the vast pit within matthew brown.

❝ _well, you’re about to become well versed._ ❞

it was then, with a seated sense of surprise, that the detective motions for will to follow him away from the encapsulated safety of the ambulance towards the yellow tape acting guard. harshly yanking the barrier upwards to accommodate will’s height, less of an act of chivalry and more an act of challenge, will folds within himself. ducking under the tape, he is distinctly aware of the watchful gaze of a new generation laying witness to a chesapeake murder. as he walks, passing countless investigators shrouded by an electric dread, he feels a thrum of what he wants to call trepidation.

 _excitement_ , the dogs howl.

following jack crawford through his own home, icy water waking him from a bones deep reverence, he’s no more saddened by the sight of matthew brown as he had been upon discovering his body. he’d hoped, head held towards the heavenly host, as he stood besides jack that something would awaken within him. prayers to an unfeeling god begging for an intermission to which he could return to rib. that, perhaps, he might feel a resolve within him crumble and with that give way to the overwhelming grief he’d never betrayed his nature by feeling.

❝ _i understand if you need a moment._ ❞

the detective had a way of making kind requests sound vacant, almost demanding. will respected that of the man, never wandering too far from the stretches of his occupation in conversation, and so didn’t take too long before returning his gaze to the corpse.

heaven would be of no help today.

hadn’t michael defeated lucifer enough times?

❝ _i’m okay. i can see._ ❞

crawford stares.

will stares back.

❝ _and what is it you see?_ ❞

a red sea parts, a pendulum beats, and will sees matthew brown alive once more. he paces. eloping with the darkness vibrating along the seams of his conscious, he patrols the room for hours on end whilst will is in the embrace of a lecture. at one point, not distinguishable by time but by morality, he strides to the kitchen. with the god of the old testament at his side, he chooses to repent his crime through personal sacrifice, grabbing a knife from the block facing the microwave, and absolving him of guilt ( _i’m putting the lamb out of its misery_ ).

will, from an abstract concept of self, feels himself grimace. matthew brown had always been conceived from the grey morality of a narcissistic mother but had never bred the egotism mandatory for murder.

he finds himself in the living room again breathing harsh through tears of righteous culpability. vibrating with the power thrumming through his mortal flesh, he wonders if this is how it felt to be god. to take life when life refused to take back. building an ark to be remembered as creator rather than destroyer, as his creations floated on the bones of all those taken as compensation, but to never deny that there was once a time before light where all there had been was god and the darkness.

were men not made in god’s image?

yet as he turns once more to lock the back door, he can only feel a cold pinch as his sciatic nerve is severed by a knife stolen from his palm. muscles collapsing, he falls heavily to the floor paralysed.

he is less scared by the paralysis, and more by the pain still radiating from his side.

he can feel everything.

his lips were the first to be stitched together, screams too blistering to not scold he who heard.

**this is my d e s i g n.**

❝ _an offering._ ❞

jack hums, almost appraised that he was not alone in his thoughts and looks back towards the matthew. _one hell of an offer._

❝ _the carnations are meant to signify the beginnings of a courtship, that’s the best theory we have so far at least. the pink ones along the abdominal cavity represent admiration, whilst the ones placed within the oesophagus are variegated, symbolising a regret that the love cannot be shared. jimmy price, by the way… if you were wondering._ ❞

will turns to the man in question, an aging investigator with a kind face pasted hastily over cruel humour, before returning his gaze back to matthew brown. this time, he focuses upon the garden blossoming from the hollowed chamber. he hadn’t noticed an obstruction within the gullet, but he’d hardly been looking. now, though, will was willing to place bets that the cause of death would be asphyxiation, rather than from the obvious injuries.

he’d choked on the gospel that was his love; destined to never be requited.

this wasn’t a reflection of matthew brown.

❝ _a courtship?_ ❞

will, though painting himself with a façade of oblivious naivety, knew the look in which jack was casting toward himself. if suspicions hadn’t been raised already, this analysis placed him as a close confidant to the murderer at hand. though he had a teflon alibi, forty students capable of giving testimony to his attendance to his morning forensic anthropology class, such an association to the ripper could lead to his permanent removal from campus. being consort to a serial killer with a penchant for dramatics would do him no favours when unable to give any useful testimonials to the crimes. 

_would he prefer watching the ripper as he created art from wasted flesh?_

❝ _yeah,_ _one which we imagine the ripper knew would bear no fruit. perhaps mocking mr brown for his weakness: love._ ❞

jack grunts in displeasure at the way his investigator misconstrued his words.

❝ _this could be a pursual of mr graham, though, surely?_ ❞

jimmy falters, face surrendering to the confusion coiling itself beneath the surface of such an allegation, before turning rigidly towards will in question. will interjects, a desperate submission to his accessory to the death of matthew brown.

❝ _they’re also the flower which grew from the eyes of the shepherd wrongfully murdered by diana, goddess of the hunt. he played the flute, and in return she plucked his eyes from his skull in a fit of rage believing him to be spoiling her pursuit. she later felt guilt, regret even, at the unnecessary nature of her temper._ ❞

eyes of rich brown narrow as will realises his mistake.

❝ _not much about flowers, huh?_ ❞

jack edges, face now swathed in weariness, but is met by

silence.

he lets out a sigh more akin to a heave.

❝ _so, you think he regrets killing mr brown?_ ❞

will lets out a bitter laugh.

❝ _no._

 _he regrets the inevitability of having to kill me_ ❞

❝ _am i free to go, mr crawford?_ ❞

❝… _yes, mr graham._ ❞

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

when will was allowed to leave the crime scene, beverly was waiting with an impassive expression.

she didn’t seem too haunted either.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

they’d taken solace within the belly of the campus coffee shop whilst the student accommodation services scrambled to find them a place to stay until forensics were satisfied that they’d read all they could of the poem within their living room.

no one approached them.

beverly ordered them two double shots of espresso. 

the silence in which they immersed themselves was tentative.

she didn’t ask the extent to which will grieved. beverly, after all, was one of the only people who could look at will and see the mercy behind his lack of anguish. for will graham to grief was to immolate his sense of control, his godly jurisdiction; it was to accept submission to pre-destined fate. to believe he were dominated by hard determinism, would be to believe he was merely delaying the inevitability of his nature.

beverly had yet to know her roommate’s true nature,

but from the way he’d spoken to dr. lecter

she didn’t wish to know.

and so, neither broached the conversation so readily awaiting consumption.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

it was with great irritation that will found himself, in the silence, vacant of the snarling dogs.

it had been just him and the stag for days.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

with only the contents in their class bags, having to bargain even those out of the hands of federal investigators, the two found themselves slouched against the fabric caress of unyielding chair. all will could do was fiddle with _the_ phone within his hands, as the silence became a variegated carnation stifling his airway. it seems the ripper had managed to asphyxiate two.

beverly watched from hooded eyes, refusing to martyr herself on the tightrope will walked, and was reminded of the ways in which she’d watched the man burn himself down and mould himself around an asperger’s diagnosis in their first year. the students of georgetown had been so swift in their observations of will graham, and even quicker to label the man as autistic. beverly, too, found it significantly less demanding to simply dismiss the oddities for which he acted under the carpeted blow of the spectrum, and _that_ is why she neglected to tell him of her younger sister’s own neurodivergence, and the frightening ravine of differences they each harboured.

better an autist than a psychopath, in her opinion.

❝ _you know that was a gift from dr. lecter, right?_ ❞

beverly starts, fragmented and hesitant, as she senses will’s apprehension. it had been nearing the mouth of two weeks since will had awoken to a hangover of proportions not even religious scripture could conjure. two weeks since will had awoken to a box, delicately wrapped in crisp white paper and strung with a black satin bow, sat with an appraising innocence on his bedside table. the label clearly spelt his name, penmanship that would have once merited a prophetic tongue, and will ached with the memory of his name in dr. lecter’s mouth. like the lamb herded, will ignored the gift for three days before succumbing to his authentic role of wolf, and devouring the paper in scorned curiosity.

_It wasn’t your role to accept such gift_

the stag exhales with a ferocity, crooning in delicate remembrance of a scolding parent. 

_it was an offering_

will mutters back, and the stag is silenced by the indulgence of a response.

ignoring the stag within him was becoming a waning battle.

still, it had been two weeks since he’d met dr. lecter.

two weeks, and still he ached for a second introduction.

❝ _i know we haven’t spoken about that night because-_ ❞

❝- _because i don’t remember that night-_ ❞

they both knew a lie when it was in front of them.

❝ _-because you’re not willing to speak about it, but he’s not the kind of man you want to get entangled with._ ❞

❝ _just what are you insinuating, beverly?_ ❞

beverly goes to speak, mouth opened in fierce outrage at the terse tone will had the audacity to take with her, but falters. it is with a single thought, that she crumbles in within herself.

❝ _…nothing, will. i’m just saying be careful._ ❞

it wasn’t the fear that will wouldn’t take her seriously that kept her smothered by secrecy, it was the terrifying truth that there was a frightening side of will that beverly refused to interact with, which would believe her with undoubted faith and still yearn to pursue dr. lecter with a keening passion.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

when beverly had first returned to work, dr. lecter is not whom she’d expected to meet her in the staff room.

in truth, she had full trust her manager would not chide her for leaving early the previous day. it was under the commandment of the don, himself, and though she knew the man to be cruel to those who crossed unfortunately diverging paths, he’d never had a penchant for unnecessary staff toying.

the place was unnervingly quiet when she’d entered.

❝ _i hope our dearest will found himself home safely, ms katz._ ❞

she hadn’t spoken to begin with. voice latent of confident use, she’d just allowed herself to waste precious time on carefully placing her bag on the circular table which encompassed the centre of the room. thinking, lamenting heavily on the importance such response, she cleared her throat to buy herself time.

she imagined dr. lecter knew what she was doing.

the man always knew.

❝ _he did, doctor. woke up with a hell of a headache, i must admit._ ❞

the feigned relaxation that webbed itself tightly through the cords of conversation strained under the constraints of formality.

❝ _i’m not altogether surprised, to what did you imagine his endeavours would lead?_ ❞

ah, beverly mustered, he placed blame on her.

blame already stationed upon herself by her own person.

❝ _i’m afraid, dr. lecter, that me and will graham hadn’t spoken for months before last night._ ❞

the words had come out ridiculed with a bitter residue of a conversation not yet spoken. in truth, she had meant to approach will that morning to broach the topic of what her boundaries dictated. she’d wanted to shout, to let out the hurt that he had inflicted upon her undeserving skin when he’d ceased all communications, but had found herself, instead, angry at matthew brown.

it had been a long night after her shift had prematurely come to a stuttering end. will, thought sobered by the electric presence that dr. lecter encroached, had been difficult to guide once stood. not expecting any form of aid from the cold static of a man, she’d wrestled herself under will’s right arm only to be met by a force of equating proportions stemming from the left underarm.

hannibal had made a man drunk on the pain of infidelity look like a consort of vast respectability. strong arm wrapped around waist, concealing the power in which he held him in place, and other hand carefully, almost _tenderly_ , smoothing the creases along his blazer lapels, hannibal had led will through the foyer with a pretence of ease. even when they had been stopped by lady bedelia, will had looked at hannibal as though he’d been the one to first command ‘ _let there be light_ ’ just for him.

beverly accepted her ill-suited physique, held the doors for the two men, and tried not to

think too deeply into the care in which hannibal treated will.

❝ _i always took you as loyal, ms katz._ ❞

hannibal tuts, a judge with faces of contempt, and beverly struggles to conceal the fierce scowl flooding through the gaps in her polite exterior. because, sure, hannibal had helped will into her car, and bid them safe passage through the night streets of washington, but he most certainly had not been there for will as he’d projectile vomited upon arrival.

hannibal had not been there to patiently stroke will’s

back and push his curls away from the stream.

hannibal had not been there to wash his sheets nor

his hair after nightmares gripped him into a harsh sweat.

hannibal had not been there on the anniversary

of his mother’s death, turning mirrors away dutifully.

hannibal knew nothing of her loyalty to will graham.

❝ _i’d like to believe i am too, sir, but it was will who fell out of contact with me._ ❞

beverly nearly bites before realising too late that she’d revealed too much information to not pique the man’s interests. see, dr. lecter, as a free spirit, craved knowledge. _he was nosey_. even those who didn’t necessarily interest him, he’d burn the backs of their hands until they revealed their palms. from there, he would read them; their line of life, heart, head and destiny all under his scrutiny until he found himself bored by their predictability. he’d feign disinterest, however, until the time came that the information became imperative.

❝ _why may that be?_ ❞

if she could have without losing both job and life, beverly would have sighed. she knew that any information she fed to him herself would forever be a memorial of her character, yet she also knew the danger that came from starving a man such as himself. hannibal respected those who remained loyal, it’s true, but his respect did not always equate to security. beverly was

❝ _he started a relationship with a guy with a penchant for control._ ❞

beverly remained parsimonious with what she detailed,

but hannibal didn’t need to open his mouth and ask.

❝ _matthew brown, dr. lecter._ ❞

she thought such particular would be of no future relevance.

or maybe some part of her knew the danger to which she put matthew in at referring to his person

but after hearing will sob for four hours over the toilet about the months he’d spent battered by his side; she didn’t care.

❝ _well, i am relieved he’s found comfort again **within** you _❞

beverly didn’t appreciate the insinuation that dr. lecter was making. schooling the frown furrowed deep between her brows, she faced the man in petulant distaste. it had been the very same insinuation that had haunted beverly from school yard to college lecture. looming over her in a distorted echo of the childhood accusations against her father. nothing could quite rid her of the constant stream of superstition debating the value for which will had for her past her genitalia.

well, not until she’d kissed miriam lass in front of her forensics peers after she’d trapsed cross-campus with hands full of beverly’s forgotten essay.

❝ _yes, i imagine he has. him and my girlfriend get on exceedingly well._ ❞

it was dangerous to rise to such bait, to bite down and trust the hook would not be snatched upwards into suffocation, but dr. lecter merely smiles at her. his smile lacked, however, it’s usual cold glint. when one found themselves at the receiving end of a lecter smile, they could often see their own mistake tormenting them viciously within the ill-humoured baring of teeth. now beverly wasn’t naïve enough to believe this to be a smile of genuine origins but when she had the courage to seek his eyes, she found an oddly reassuring warmth within them: almost relief.

beverly didn’t want to think too hard into how the man seemed to relax upon the discovery that she and graham were not _fucking_.

❝ _then, surely, you must understand the necessity to which i ask of you not to reveal my nature. i was feeling particularly merciful last night when he stumbled upon me, but that remains true on the condition he remains oblivious to my business. i cannot afford rumours of such kindness affording me a questioned reputation now, could i?_ ❞

beverly quite nearly snorted.

in fact, she came so close that she had to

c o u g h

to hide it.

❝ _of course, sir, i doubt he remembers much. he was… very drunk._ ❞

beverly reassures, face completely free from deceit, and finds herself fighting a smile at the memory of will waking that morning, groaning profanities, with hair resembling a nest.

❝ _of course. well, i hope he wasn’t awfully fond of that matthew brown._ ❞

  1. lecter smiles and beverly feels as though she’s seeing some mistake reflected back from the



cold abyss, but she can’t quite put her finger on what that mistake may be.

beverly hadn’t understood what he had meant by that dismissal.

she did now.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

the student accommodation services found them a hotel within a half mile of campus, and little else, but the pair gladly took what they were given as daylight transgressed to the plights of the moon. no one wanted to walk across washington at night, even with the knowledge that beverly warranted them enough protection to garner safety on their travel, and they both had morning classes they were unwilling to skip.

it was with a sick sense of realisation, that beverly found them in good humour on their walk to the hotel.

❝ _you reckon i’ll ever be able to convince miriam to come over after this?_ ❞

❝ ** _i think_** _you’d have better luck at inviting the ripper over._ ❞

will retorts, sarcasm rolling waves, and beverly snorts in response.

❝ _well, i’m sure if he doesn’t murder us on the way to this fucking hotel, i’ll count us lucky._ ❞

will seems to walk closer to beverly at that comment, almost protectively, but let’s himself mischievously smile like he had done when he was a young boy. truly, beverly remained the only person in existence in which will allowed himself to fully relax around; he felt no fear at the prospect of scaring her with his morbid sense of hilarity because she too shared that distinct self-deprecating humour.

❝ _he left me **courting** flowers, katz! i’d dare say the ripper would come as my valiant knight if we were apprehended._ ❞

beverly lets out a noise of disbelief and stops in her tracks, forcing will to turn around. in the soft glow of the overheard streetlight, beverly thought will looked like a man worth killing for: a halo sculpted across a fringe of muddy curls and eyes alight with an unspoken secret.

she had to remind herself, later on in the year after jack crawford had visited their apartment and broken the news to her, that lucifer had been the most beautiful of the angels.

❝ _courting flowers?!_ ❞

she hollers into the night and watches as will turns his face bashfully and laughs.

for a moment the streetlight lighting his halo

flickers.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

it was only when they entered their hotel room, safety smoothing the hysterical edges, that will could breathe fully.

and it was only when they entered the hotel room, that he was reminded of the question pressing against his lungs.

❝ _what **were** you insinuating earlier, bev? about dr. lecter._ ❞

will concedes, kicking his shoes off with an unborn hostility, but finds himself yelling it from where he stood as beverly continues her savage pursuit for a place to sleep.

beverly snorts, unceremoniously, at the question and falls heavily onto the mattress she’d labelled hers, mind heavier with guilt, but finds herself shaking her head in exhausted disbelief when she lets her head roll to stare at the vacant bed besides her own.

❝ _i think it’s too late for insinuations, will._ ❞

and for a _moment_ will is confused by the nature of the shout. that is until he follows where beverly had gone and finds the source of beverly’s bemusement: a parcel wrapped in crisp white paper and a black satin bow sitting innocently on the foot of his bed.

the label, in familiar calligraphy, reads just his name.


	3. tribus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> conformity only constrains those with cunning convictions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> or, the one where author feels the keen sting of a rejecting friendship so copes through thinly veiled fluff // never mind we talked about worms

❝ _the victim we will be investigating this lecture is forty-seven-year-old aarav khatri._

 _he was a prolific **homosexual**. _❞

will graham couldn’t see, though his own lens were shrouded by bias of a vindictive _personal_ variety, why that seemed to matter within the context of the case. it seemed a red herring; information cuttingly placed afront the class as an added weight of the pendulum beliefs surrounding them. it seemed… so misguided. With little purpose, that statement floated with no ties around the hall in which will found himself miserably sat. the statement, weighted enough to breed a thickened air with which it touched, was readily inhaled by his peers, unbeknownst of the lead staining their lungs, _their consciousness_ , whilst will, himself, felt a vast chasm of separation.

would will not know a loaded gun if it were forced through his teeth?

he knew, rationality rearing a glitching muzzle, that he would find no closure within the four walls of the chamber hollowed out by a bigoted professor. he knew that he needn’t read too far into the bleak manifesto leaking from the edges of the way _homosexual_ had tasted so bitter on his professor’s tongue. he knew that perhaps if it were a different case such unprompted information may have added a third dimension to the case at hand, another level to the dexterity and birth of such violence, but it **_wasn’t_** _another_ case, and it added nothing but a razor-sharp silence.

he also knew why he felt so personally attacked by such a statement.

aarav khatri, a dual-national gaining custody of the promise land through international affairs, had been brutally murdered (as was usually the fine tune sung through his classes) by an unknown civilian dressed under the guise of a policeman. his body, found by a dog walker in the early kisses of the morning, had-

❝ _\- had been partially cannibalised, missing several skeletal muscles,_

 _and had several external bitemarks across his thighs, abdomen, and forearms._ ❞

when will had opened the door, allowing in an empathy unbecoming of his vessel, he had done so without the knowledge of how to close such a door. there had once been a time in his life, a childhood spent afront a mirror practicing the alien emotions he saw so often on the faces of others, where he had felt _no_ empathy; just a blank slate of morality and a malfunctioning innate process that haunted him from conception. until, eventually, he tired of being an open wound, festering for all child psychologists to see, and so he _adapted_.

the door could not be closed.

it was with this learnt empathy ( _and a basic understanding of the human body’s flexible capacity_ ) that led will to crossing off his haphazardly scribbled ‘autosarcophagy’ prediction. will scowled, feeling ‘ _prolific homosexual_ ’ gently nuzzle bladed scorn to vulnerable stomach, because he just didn’t appreciate the privacy of being _wrong_.

❝ _his stomach contents? the corresponding muscle to his injuries. any hypothesis?_ ❞

a cacophony of hands swim through flooded air.

❝ _self-cannibalisation, sir?_ ❞

if will didn’t deeply respect his peers capability, he would have scoffed. it wasn’t a rare occurrence to which will would find himself ahead of the class, making leaps that isolated his reports from the rest, but this could hardly constitute.

it was then that will learnt that people, law enforcements inclusionary, would make the connect they yearned for. they so often lacked the learned pliability necessary for cases estranged from the typical. when they found a conclusion they liked, they’d settle, thrive in the comfort of continuity, even when the details spoke a different narrative.

will felt no such comfort in remaining the same.

yet, it was instances such as these in which he would remain silent. a childhood scorched by alienation often left burned scars still inflamed, and will needn’t but do a quick survey of the room to conclude that his peers had all reached an identical conclusion. because yes, will made connections the fellow student body could not grasp but that would remain a useless endeavour until which he could articulate a bridge. how were he to explain to the class that he just _knew_ that mr. khatri had led a sedentary life, unlikely to venture further than the bus route to and from work, and so such a suicide would have been abstractly abhorrent to the traditional values to which he set himself? perhaps he could have tried to explain such a profile from race alone; an indian man was likely to have been raised with very contained ideas of self and taken a great pride in this encapsulation of his being. yet, it was all hypotheticals.

he was no more intelligent than any of them, just more _imaginative_.

❝ _an answer typical for a first-year, miss starling. unfortunately, no. the cannibalisation of oneself rarely occurs_

_so explicitly and is typically an open-and-shut case… mr. graham? you seem to believe yourself above these lectures_

_so pray tell what you’ve gathered from this case._ _❞_

professor sallow was a man in which will could handle in dizzyingly small proportions. coated thick in a smarminess that only resided atop of individuals with god complexes to match, sallow often voiced distaste towards the ability of female students. in fact, the professor regularly patronised and demonised any of his students that he viewed as ‘below his standards’. said standards dictated against women, people of colour, neurodivergent individuals, and anyone who generally just refused to bend over backwards for his theories.

will graham and professor sallow had a strenuous relationship to say the least.

at name mention, will finds himself looking upwards from the scribbles mocking him from his otherwise vacant page and grimaces slightly at the smug expression on the elder man’s face. it was that very smugness, that delusional sense of superiority, which had stopped will from attending his previous lectures in the first place. learning very little from a class tailored to teaching close-minded individuals how to see unfamiliar patterns, matthew had convinced him to cease attendance in favour of spending time together. he’d done that _often_.

beverly had all but threatened him into returning to the lectures as the new semester had commenced.

teeth clenched, imprisoning any unsavoury comments, he deflects the original question with a practiced eased.

❝ _did the bitemarks found on his body correspond to his dental prints?_ ❞

will often found that in instances where his expansion of knowledge surpassed that of others, it was easier to coax the surrounding individuals through the process of elimination rather than explain the intrinsic details to which he’d come to his own conclusion. he’d orchestrate it all, carefully dipping questions into conversation with a matured elegance that originated from years of constipated annoyance, until eventually the only rational idea left was his own.

will graham had long mastered the art of manipulation.

❝ _...no, they weren’t a definitive match._ ❞

will doesn’t _gloat_ per say but he can most definitely identify the gentle stream of pleased complacency.

all it had taken was an innocent probe, a carefully asked question that could so easily be bred from a cataclysm of blind ignorance, for the class to keep pace with will graham’s overactive imagination.

professor sallow didn’t seem convinced.

❝ _a rather pointed question wouldn’t you say, mr. graham?_ ❞

sallow simpers, clouded by the smug twitch of his lips at the sight of his student frowning in annoyance, and will is sharply reminded of why else he’d found himself comfort in unattendance.

the man could just _always_ tell when will was deflecting.

he clenches his teeth and swallows the pill taking form of a sickly sharp stag within his oesophagus.

❝ _i… the victim was a forty-seven-year-old man._ ❞

he sounds sardonic, he knows, but he can’t help the way it pools within the hollow of his chest and spills. his hands have always fidgeted but will finds himself having to cease the tugging of his curls in order to sweepingly retrieve the glasses from his pencil case. he has a sense of urgency as he pushes them up the bridge of his nose before taking a shallow breath. he composes himself, hearing the faint echo of snarling snouts licking hungrily into the cavity of his heart, and collects what _he_ knows and what everyone _else_ knows.

❝ _it would be…highly improbable a man of his age would be able to contort himself at_

_an angle sufficient to biting his lower abdomen. it’s also unlikely he would be able to bite_

_through skeletal muscle without the intervention of some variant of stimulant drug to remain_

_conscious throughout, and i imagined you would have mentioned the toxicology_

_reports if they had been of any significance._ ❞

the class know not to stare when will graham occasionally shares a burst of light.

sallow swallows a snidey sneer.

❝ _that’s a very general statement, mr. graham, but you are, **of course** , correct in _

_your scope. yet i wonder, how, then, do **you** believe aarav khatri was murdered? _❞

will graham had a rule within himself, a moral code of such perimetres, in which dictated a strong sense of self control.

will graham did _not_ empathise with murderers under _any_ conditions.

too slippery a slope.

❝ _i can’t imagine, professor._ ❞

❝ ** _really_** _, i thought what with the shared life experience… **pity**. _❞

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

❝ _what the **fuck** was that supposed to mean?! _❞

beverly snaps, whole frame shaking with unbridled indignation, and if it had not been for the mouthful of panini, will would have found himself taken aback. as they walked across college grounds in comfortable synchrony, trapsing through the mowed park central to campus, will had eventually recited his morning lessons dialogue.

❝ _fuck knows, bev. the man’s a total psychopath._ ❞

he’d known exactly what the man meant, just by looking at the way sallow had barely tamed the smirk colonising his features, but had contributed nothing in return; simply returning his gaze back to the wasteland of empty pages on his desk, and prayed he wouldn’t be questioned any further that lesson. (he wasn’t). his peers, only a few catching the falling insinuation, swallowed the tar yet again with ease. it had been humiliating, one of the few times will had found himself _ashamed_ of his sexuality since moving from home, and will had left the lesson dampening the blistering frustration that so often followed the feeling of a burn.

❝ _no, will, you know exactly what he meant by that! that piece of **shit**!_

_christ, you need to report his ass to the college board, will! he can’t keep_

_getting away with this!_ ❞

crumbs barely contained within opening jaw, beverly looks to will in outrage. truly, she’d been partly aware of the type of comments professor sallow would make (what with clarice so often reduced to tears after such a lesson had transpired), but to hear it straight from will struck a chord within her.

perhaps it was the unnaturally tacky paint of embarrassment slick on her friend’s expression.

either way, beverly was positively vibrating with an ancient fuel. will, finally playing folly with the shred of humour embedded within the situation, found himself holding back his own smile. fond in nature, it bloomed from the earthly knowledge of being cared for. with the way beverly had so quickly adopted the burden of his own rage, alleviating him of the shameful howls rutting over a chasm of darkness, will found himself sharply reminded of his friend’s own nature.

beverly katz so slow to anger yet in no short supply.

❝ _what do you reckon he was hinting at? the lustrous homosexuality,_

 _or the autism diagnosis?_ ❞

his tone besmirches an entitled sense of mockery.

❝ _aarav khatri was on the spectrum?_ ❞

she asks with a curiosity so painfully characteristic before scowling at the empty packaging where a once plentiful panini had been. he lets the statement settle in the air, not too long to grow stagnant, before answering. a natural pause with a conjecture of thought that beverly was more than used to with will graham. she simply waits.

she would always wait for will graham.

❝ _oh boy, was he! we got to hear **all** about it straight after sallow made a point that _

_we had shared ‘life experience’. three power point slides worth to be specific._ ❞

the words roll out with an unnatural bitterness. will was rarely bitter. there was little in his life that could evoke such an emotion. anger, sure, but never quite the sour wave of spiteful wishes. perhaps it was the overwhelming embarrassment.

beverly matches his bitterness with a punctual eyeroll.

❝ _he’s just a dick, will. seriously if you’re not going to_

 _take this to complaints then at least don’t let this get to you._ ❞

will wants to ask just _how_ she expects he would let it get to him, but he already knows the look he’d receive in response.

they walk further in consigned silence, neither awkward nor entirely comfortable as both are reminded of a time where will’s fragility had expired to no bounds, but will enjoys the respite. with a softly shared companionship, they walked from campus grounds through park.

the walk towards their accommodation could hardly be considered

s h o r t.

yet, with beverly by his side, it felt more akin to refreshment than labour.

that is until, along the landscape of fallen leaves, they both notice a swarm of life embracing the chilling air.

they squint.

❝ _what the hell’s the bureau doing on campus?_ ❞

will is the one to bite the bullet, forming words from shared thoughts, but beverly doesn’t seem to mind.

❝ _urm, petty theft?_ ❞

even with the bleakness, the yellow splattering of police tape barely containing the splattering of blood painted across the treeline, they find it within themselves to laugh. morbid, definitely, in the way that they are approaching full view of the mutilated corpse laughing yet so painfully characteristic of their companionship.

the policemen, standing empty of civic duty, notice their presence too late to spare the college students.

❝ _looks like another chesapeake murder…_ ❞

beverly mutters along a wave of toe-curling anticipation.

they’re not laughing any longer.

will is transfixed.

❝ _kids, **please**! break it up! you’ve can’t be here; this is an active crime scene!_ ❞

beverly and will glance at one another, corners of eye becoming flooded with dual irritation, before looking back to the officer who had jogged towards their space within the park. he’d made a point of shouting, yelling to the peak of his capacity, as he’d made his way across. doing little else but arousing the pointed attention of the fbi agents littering the scene, beverly raised an arching eyebrow.

❝ _officer with all due respect, how’re we supposed to get home_

 _then? we’re just on the other side of those gates._ ❞

rather than expressing a full stop which would have fizzled with a gracious arch, beverly makes a point of gesturing towards the apartment building residing as an ever-watching presence above the canopy of trees.

will is still staring absently at the corpse.

❝ _i suppose you’ll just have to turn back go **around**. _❞

❝ _the ripper didn’t do this, did he?_ ❞

will interjects, not quite shaken from his revere, but asks in a tone less questioning and more knowing. as a god would watch over the tree that lays fruit at his feet, will held the forbidden knowledge hidden from the noticeable seams within the palms of his skull. he didn’t know just _how_ he knew such discrepancy, yet, even from afar, will felt certain in the feeling itching from within his gut.

❝ _…i-i don’t know, kid! Just fuck off and let the FBI do their job._ ❞

beverly visibly bleeds at the thorned comment but remembers herself before she haemorrhages. defensiveness barrelling through any previous sentiments, she looks to will instinctively.

his jaw clenches, naturally blocking the feral bites originating from a mind not unlike his own,

but will still finds himself enthralled by the carnage laid waste upon the skin of grass.

beverly goes to open her mouth,

❝ ** _no_** _! do you have any idea how many nosey students I’ve had to **pry** away from here?! a young woman is **dead,** and you need to turn the hell around, walk away, and have some fucking respect whilst the professionals do their jobs. _❞

psyche prickling with poignant pleasure, will severs the barking within him and looks away from the scene in disgust. internalising the sting echoing pitifully from within his chest, shame blossoms as a bitter fellow alongside. little empathy could be found within the bone arena of his skull as he’d looked upon the scene with a sense of bemused enjoyment. this killer, whoever they may be, had a certain flare so rare within random murders. yet, almost with a sense of childlike obedience, they had seemed to find great pleasure in goading a scene so similar to the chesapeake ripper; it was almost as though he was demonstrating to a parent their talents in a desperate bid for _pride_. with that in mind, however, will found himself tackling humour at the pathetic display of respect. gazing, unassuming, upon the shattered mirrors place upon eyes and mouth, he only sees his reflection resonate across the distance.

face crumbling, hands suddenly losing circulation, he bites back the aftershock of his own apathy.

had the innocent woman so crudely brutalised not begged for privacy upon death?

had he not just ignored her suffering in favour of morbid interest?

as if she can sense it, that oil spill side of him she’d avoided looking directly in the eyes, beverly palms his forearm in a bid to retire their journey. casting one last look upon the scene, pity arousing itself at the sight of the slaughtered younger woman, she turns her back to the brutality as she so often did when brutality followed. will follows. rooted by the weighted grip of a woman gaunt with sympathies, he chased the silence between them curiously.

❝ _mr. graham!_ ❞

they both turn in a leu interest.

will truly, and utterly, has to hide the way his eyes instinctively roll upwards at the sight of jack crawford approaching them as a man on a mission.

beverly, herself, had already been anticipating a work visit from the man within the confines of le bernardin. the place was still constantly under the man’s radar, peaking during incidents of gang violence, and beverly seemed to be the most amiable of the employees as she was so often stuck afront of the man.

or perhaps she was the only one not to fall for the man’s questioning.

still as detective crawford thunders his way under the tape, neither student can hide the definite shift in which their stance takes. going on the defensive, beverly’s grip on forearm tightens. she didn’t trust jack, that was an understatement, but she could definitely respect his penchant for manipulation from afar: this devious exploitation, however, was becoming increasingly too close. it was with a fierce, lurching, snarl unbecoming of her muscles, that she realised blatantly that she wanted jack crawford as far as physically possible away from her friend’s (already fragile) mental state.

❝ _mr. graham!... miss. katz._ ❞

crawford mellows at the sight of the glaring woman; she was often a force in which he found himself unbudging. coming to an abrupt stop in front of the pair, no visible signs of exertion past perhaps a slight hitch of breath, he mechanically holds out welcoming hand.

will takes it.

beverly does not.

❝ _detective. we were just leaving._ ❞

beverly doesn’t mean for it to sound so biting, dogs long tamed within her, but jack takes an amble backwards step in response. they stare, equal parts glare and annoyance mingling within the air, as will watches with a dull blade of edged humour. truly, he was glad that beverly chose to speak on his behalf, it reminded him of her ever-building vigilance to constructing his safety nets, and he didn’t think it worthy of his energy to try and break the two up. so, in response, he has to swallow a destructive snigger.

❝ _i was actually wondering, mr graham, if you’d be willing to stay_

 _back a little while longer._ ❞

will isn’t entirely blind to the way jack keeps eye contact with beverly as he disregards her entirely.

❝ _will, you have a date…_ ❞

nor is he blind to the way beverly doesn’t go to break the stare either.

exhaling, allowing himself a moment of serenity, will looks upon the scene with a breeze of finality. he justifies it. somewhere, something, lurking deep within the murky waters of his psyche lunges at the idea of being so _close_ to such a shameless copycat. the ripper, the itching tidal pool which had asked so brazenly for will’s own hand through the corpse of his late ex-boyfriend, had remained relatively dormant ever since. it was with a significant echo of relief amongst the study body, and authorities alike, that such a kill could be considered a kill for passion rather than the months long tyranny that had once gripped campus. will, however, was unconvinced.

he always killed in groups of three.

and this? such a blatant display of artwork forced over a wired edge of plagiarism? _this_ would incite a reaction. perhaps not that close akin to rage, the ripper didn’t seem capable of such blind discourse, but the retaliation would be a spectacle; indeed, most likely it would be a murder of unparalleled dimension, something so intrinsically complex, replication would be an impossible feat. and if will took interest? if will could pepper the flames with salted jealousy?

will doesn’t attempt to stent the howling within him.

❝ _well, as long as you two stop eye-fucking, and_

 _you make it quick, i… i can stay for a few minutes._ ❞

will almost gives in, keens towards the laughter embezzling its way through his cavities, at the shared look of utter revulsion shot brutally in his direction by both parties. whilst beverly grimaces, most likely trying to shake away the intrusive thoughts that so often burrowed within her, the detective seems to relax at will’s submission. 

❝ _a first impression is all we need, mr. graham. nothing more._ ❞

he assures, voice free of any hidden dimensions, and makes a point of not looking at miss. katz as he turns on blunt heel.

❝ _i’ll be quick, bev. i promise_ ❞

will was a brave man to meet the woman’s gaze at such a moment. tone interwoven with teetering flecks of sincerity, easily picked from its seams, his eyes scarcely keep contact with the familiar pair. bridges burning, reflected so harshly, will has the respect to consider the possibility that he’d made the wrong call. yet before he can sheepishly retreat from the scene, so eagerly willing to disregard the darkness swelling up alongside lungs for his friend, beverly sighs tiredly.

looking to him with restless eyes, she manages the hints of mischievousness.

❝ _you’d better be… dr. lecter really isn’t the type of man I’d keep waiting._ ❞

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

❝ _so, you don’t believe this is the work of our dear ripper, william?_ ❞

the amarone had, thankfully, not yet filtered through will’s system. the rich red wine, the type a student could scarce believe could co-exist with remains of yesterday’s ramen within their palate, had a flavour rich enough to send his head spinning within the small comfort of the private restaurant.

it had been with delicate palm, stern but welcomingly warm-blooded, that dr. lecter had cradled the skin of will’s hands. coaxing movement, somehow retaining a modicum of professionality in spite of the oddly invasive move, lecter had keenly explained to will just _how_ to savour such a flavour once it had become obvious that the younger man had only mixed with bagged pinot grigio. it had been how the tender ice separating the two men had been so tastefully broken after will had arrived

late

still, tentatively remembering the clinically instructed steps, will simply found himself experiencing a light headedness before even taking his third sip. _surprisingly poignant_ was what dr. lecter had remarked over his own glass. will imagines there must be some source of humour that needn’t fail at keeping his date occupied, because he finds himself meeting a concealed twitch of lips.

❝ _it’s actually just will._ ❞

this had long been a debate, never tiring to be recycled, amongst himself and strangers because _no, i promise it just says will on my birth certificate, ma’am._ he didn’t much mind the way william sounded along the harsh contours of the doctor’s mouth, but it would never truly settle amongst the air of personal, and so he’d taken the dive once again.

❝ _it is not short for anything?_ ❞

he says it in a mellow, bordering on bored, drizzle; the tone didn’t bother will all too entirely. truly, he didn’t expect to keep the interests of a man such as dr. lecter for long. because even beyond face value, the posture of class which could never quite reach will’s own spine, the pair seemed to have few interests in common. it was as though god, themselves, had place them both at the table to truly test the polarity of man.

❝ _my parents were southern._ ❞

he quips, nose returning to wine glass, as though it were an explanation enough.

doctor lecter edges along a bemused smirk, interested.

❝ _yet I can detect no southern belle accent._ ❞

❝ _would you rather one?_ ❞

Will remarks teasingly in return, quickly enticed to follow lecter down the rabbit hole of conversation, and carefully places his glass down to rest in favour of adjusting his mahogany button-down. it was one of his more _glamorous_ articles of clothing. early the previous year, will had followed beverly cross-country for thanksgiving under the ruse of a devoted, albeit quiet, boyfriend when her parents had begun to raise suspicions of the nature pertaining to her female companionships. she’d insisted he wear something nice, ‘ _but slutty’_ , in a desperate bid to keep her family at bay for at least another annuum.

Deliberately unbuttoning his collar, and one extra button down for luck, will was confident he’d nailed the _slutty_ look.

❝ _but, no, i don’t believe this can be blamed entirely on the ripper._ ❞

will returns, circling back to the topic that interested him so keenly, and notices the intimate way in which the older man leans slightly forward; it’s almost secretive the way his eyes conspire with will’s.

❝ _and what lead you to such a conclusion?_ ❞

he feels an inkling, a dull and vacant tug, that he’s facing a red flag of some variety. he can’t explain, not without encompassing a far darker impulse within himself, just how such an encouragement left him momentarily suspicious, but it did. he stifles this, however, as he so often did with warning signs. hell, even beverly had sounded alarms within the cathartic muscles of his self-preservation. this ignorance is in favour of the not-entirely-unwelcoming homely feel delicately arching itself within the ebbs of their conversation and he can’t help the pleasurable lurch of butterfly-infused stomach as dr. lecter allows him the privilege of his full attention.

will really should be preparing himself for the inevitable rejection.

❝ _i- this new killer, he… he consummated himself with his victim. necrophiliac-_ ❞

he grimaces in disgust.

❝ _and there were bite marks all over the victim’s body._ ❞

he can see his date’s deliberate, intelligent eyes taking their time to completely absorb the visuals painted by will’s own mind, before gently leaning backwards. will shouldn’t feel disappointed, he barely knew the man, but he also can’t deny an internal dampening smothering any fires stowing within him. they are, however, only relit as dr. lecter approaches the topic from another direction.

❝ _would you not say that the ripper consummated his kills through honouring them as art?_ ❞

he sounds almost hesitant, as though this question carefully constructed from a setting of ease was one of great importance, but will does not hide his initial mockery.

the bark of laughter takes them both by surprise, though the doctor barely acknowledged it.

❝ _no, he doesn’t consummate! he **consumes** them. vast, **vast** , difference. there’s no honouring here._

_this ripper believes his victims to be animals, an inferior species begging for slaughter._

_he’d quicker consummate with cattle than dirty himself with pigs. these… these **artworks**. they’re_

_closer to an aesop’s tale than a display of beauty: a warning._ ❞

will chooses to ignore the slightly disturbing hint of arousal apparent upon his date.

❝ _yet you speak of an entirety in which the ripper has partial accountability?_ ❞

he speaks as though it is a peculiarity, for one to draw the connection between the two, yet the light behind his pupils dilates with anticipation. he’s a stony mask of propriety externally but will can _feel_ the excitement radiating from the european, as well as himself. neither had been quite so intellectually stimulated before.

❝ _there’s a reason why everyone first **thought** it was the chesapeake ripper, dr. lecter._

_this killer, they placed mirrors over the orifices of the victim: a reflection. it’s all too poetic_

_for a washington murder, and that’s exactly what he wants. he **wants** the ripper to notice, t-to_

_conjoin together as one force, but is blind to the most likely outcome._ ❞

❝ _and you believe the ripper will retaliate?_ ❞

will graham had never felt so _heard_ before by a relative stranger.

❝ _he kills in threes. i don’t see why that would change now._ ❞

❝ _well, it’s lucky we are here tonight then, in the instance that he does choose to follow such pattern._ ❞

they drink to that sentiment: keeping eye contact throughout.

after another glass of amarone, and three ( _pathetically small)_ courses, will finds himself confident enough to manipulate the conversation. with heart stuck in a chokehold, and gut ironed out into the warmth of buzzed credence, he looks up towards the doctor only to find the man already staring at will with a mild perplexation. it’s hidden, fortified, within a second.

❝ _you know, you didn’t have to go to all that trouble just to ask me for dinner, i would_

 _have agreed if you’d just asked me over the phone._ ❞

  1. lecter, much at the expense of will’s amusement, physically blanches at the notion.



❝ _i wouldn’t reduce the introductory date as a ‘ **just** ’ affair, will. it’s incredibly important to me_

_that this is done in the correct manner, within direct perimetres, and without the dull blurred lines_

_that so naturally occur with interactions such as these._ ❞

it very nearly _warms_ will. the light, yet infinitely weighed heavy, timbre tilts around the candle separating the pair and slants with an unbreakable resolve a man no less certain than a prophet.

_so much for losing interest._

❝ _well, i don’t think i’ve ever been gifted a phone to keep_

_in contact with someone i’d yet to date... haven’t been gifted anything_

_actually, in that respect._ ❞

  1. lecter can tell that will’s tonality verges too sweetly across light to be authentic. he would, given the circumstances, imagine that will graham was not used to people taking interest in him. it seemed that the man rarely found those to indulge him in meaningful conversation; lips quirking upwards at the prospect of another date.



he finds, with a fresh genuineness, that he cannot comprehend why.

❝ _does it bother you that i took it upon myself to bestow such a gift? if I dare say,_

 _the blazer does indeed suit you as well as i’d anticipated._ ❞

the blazer _was_ nice. fitting so naturally across will’s chest, contours tapered at waist, will had first donned it within the confides of the hotel room it had been gifted to. beverly, shaking off the shock of matthew brown’s corpse being in _their_ living room, had been drowned in a giggliness characteristic of a woman five years her junior. upon opening the box, and seeing the contents to which it cradled, she’d insisted he tried it on then and there.

will, head ducking in barely concealed embarrassment, had expected it to fit with the same awkwardness of his own clothes.

soft black cashmere had been tailored with a precise flare.

will didn’t question how he’d known his measurements.

❝ _bother? no. amuse? more likely._ ❞

he’s hiding his own smile now, lips concealed by the wine glass he’d so opportunely raised, before lapping the last remnants of his second glass. truly, the wine was immaculate in both flavour and social lubrication. blood red seeping, crawling like a wounded animal, down the channel of his oesophagus to find refuge within his core; the wine held a certain addictive quality to it. in fact, if it was not for the aristocratic foundation of the restaurant they resided within, tables not private enough for will to _not_ notice how it was mostly populated by wealthy businessmen and women in cocktail dresses, will was certain he would have ordered another and gotten royally _pissed_.

  1. lecter had assured him that will would not be paying tonight.



❝ _well, I’m appraised that I source entertainment for your behalf._ ❞

eyes swimming in mirth, and yet somehow constrained by an odd harshness, dr. lecter responds with a dry tone.

it’s with a confused curiosity that will meets lecter’s eyes, unfurling the empathy he’d so tersely constrained since his morning lecture, and thinks he sees a vague burn mark within the reflection.

❝ _oh, i didn’t mean to cause any offense! really, it’s a good thing: what_

_with professor sallow and the murder being somewhat of a downer. bemusement_

_keeps me interested in the day to day._ ❞

there’s a vague silence as dr. lecter watches will intently.

❝ _you couldn’t ever offend me, will._ ❞

the words delicately edge on fond for a man who had only known the extent to will’s personality for an hour and a half.

will graham _despises_ eye contact, finds it distracting to a painful degree, and yet he finds himself swaddled by a soft flush as he and the doctor linger their gaze upon one another. he dislikes eye contact, has ever since he realised the darkness that pools beyond first glance, but he dislikes it a whole lot less when blue welcomes brown ( _maroon_ , the stag keens). Where once he would expect the dogs within him to cease their hungry snarls, tamed momentarily by the soft hold of a gaze weighted by fascination,

he instead finds the hand bloody and taunting.

they’re staring so heavily, not entirely heated yet warm nonetheless, that will barely regards the waiter as the young man nervously cradles the empty plates discarded by gods disinterested.

he drops them.

will instinctively drops, crouching carefully to the floor, as he begins to pick up the shattered remains. it’s then, now close enough to the waiter to take personal interest in his wellbeing, he finds the young man to be shaking violently with unrestrained nerves as if desperately attempts to salvage the mess.

curiosity rears its ugly head.

he can hear the slight choke of embarrassed tears stemming from the waiter as he begins to apologise with a profuseness that errs on the side of worrying, but will focuses, instead, on simply helping. the waiter could have only been seventeen, eighteen at an absolute push, and will imagines this is his first job. having worked in retail, himself, as a teen bubbling with nervous energy, he _understands_. so, because of a shared life experience of hellishly underpaid jobs, he takes resolute pity on the boy. risking a glance towards dr. lecter, pretending he had not seen the frightening flash of anger at the offending sound, he shares a private smile of humour before carefully putting all the broken pieces he’d collected into the waiter’s soft palm.

the waiter is white as a sheet when he stands, following will’s lead, and opens his mouth to perhaps start apologising again.

will cuts him off with a bemused smile and a dismissive hand gesture; he merely makes the waiter promise to clean up the palms he’d torn with hasty porcelain.

as the waiter promises profusely to return with more plates, will seats himself with an eyebrow raised.

❝ _reckon this was his first shift?_ ❞

he jests with a personal morbid sense of humour, slightly cruel along the edges, with wavering lips teetering on a smile.

❝ _most likely his last._ ❞

will squints slightly, flags of red clouding tentative vision, at the lack of humour responded.

  1. lecter changes the conversation.



❝ _you mentioned a professor sallow?_ ❞

all those red flags ease to a comforting hue of pink as dr. lecter resolves himself with calamity.

will peers towards his date vacantly, fascinated by the way in which the man could fortify his emotions and weaponize them into guerrilla warfare, before disregarding any gut feelings he may have.

he _liked_ dr. lecter, even when he did colourise into rudeness.

❝ _yes! he teaches profiling but, um, he has a penchant for being a homophobic prick out_

_to get me. he felt it was appropriate today to shout at a girl in my class and make some_

_inadvertent comments pertaining to my neurodivergence in front of everyone._ ❞

will receives an eyebrow twitch as a response.

❝ _asperger’s?_ ❞

will hums to the tune of doubt, loosened shoulders shrugging,

❝ _closer to that than psychopathy._ ❞

he’s surprised when dr. lecter laughs at that, a private display of vulnerability as he brightens with a shake of good humour, but notices the way it makes himself smile as well.

they mellow quickly, throat being cleared of any emotional disruption as the doctor takes a dutiful sample of the wine he’d left surprisingly isolated, but the warmth remains through stubborn might.

❝ _i **am** sorry to hear that you must adhere to such a man. i consider bullies incredibly_

_difficult to tolerate at the best of times. they contribute nothing but disruption into our daily_

_lives and expect a submission of respect in return. incredibly rude._ ❞

it would be a lie, bound by a biblical urge to refute truth, to state that will hadn’t noticed the dangerous glint embezzled within the cold lines of dr. lecter’s expression, because he had. the air seemed to chill to a milder winter. he’d taken note of the motion in which his date mimicked, one of clear sympathies, as he’d continued the conversation to easier navigated waters. yet that wicked, mischievous, hint of _planning_ remained throughout the night. will disregarded it, found himself blinded to any further thought, because some men just had anger rooted within their bones, that’s all.

or maybe, deep down, he _had_ known all along.

he simply hadn’t _cared_ enough to confront it.

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

❝ _how **did** you become beverly’s boss? she said you own the chain… i just_

 _wouldn’t expect chain restaurants to be your calling what with a whole medical degree._ ❞

will asks as the man guides him to his taxi.

❝ _…it was an inherited business._ ❞

he responds tersely, voice constrained by the crushing weight of practiced calamity, as his palm gently rests upon will’s lower back. guiding him, though unnecessary as will was most likely still below his daily units, into the leather embrace of the taxi with a tender instinct

will seems more than satisfied by the information given, not looking to have any interest in questioning further,

and doctor lecter loosens his grip on the steak knife within his pocket.

❝ _goodnight, dear will._ ❞

❝ _goodnight, doctor._ ❞


End file.
